


in the snow

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Eventual Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Implied Relationships, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 04:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8518780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Stop moving around so much or I’ll slip and cut off your fingers.”
  Oikawa laughs, says, “You wouldn’t do that, Iwa-chan! My beautiful hands are very important to the team.”





	1. Chapter 1

Through all the years they’ve known each other, from the snotty little brats they’d been to gangly middle schoolers to where they’re now, there has been one physical constant: Oikawa is always warm.

Their bodies changed, their voices deepened; Hajime started to accept that maybe he’d lost the race of height when Oikawa finally outgrew him in their last year in Kitaiichi and continues to do so. They’re still changing, even now, all stretching bones and growing muscles that shift underneath their skin. They’d lost all the baby fat that keeps children running hot like a radiator, and while Hajime has bulked up more than Oikawa did… somehow, Oikawa is always the warmer one.

It’s those extra centimeters, Hajime grumbles to himself as he holds one of those warm, calloused palms in his own. He lifts Oikawa’s fingers to position a nail under the clipper he’s got. _Snip, snip._ The hand flinches reflexively at the cold bite of metal, but Hajime’s steady ones keep it secure.

They’ve been at the school gym way past the unofficial curfew again. Oikawa had managed to whine and prod at Hajime enough times that Hajime gave up on the glares and threats, sighed, and said _okay_ to yet another extended practice session. Not that Oikawa needs him to be here—it’s just one of those things that’s _there_ before any of them realizes it. Like the distance between them as they walk that whittles away until their shoulders brush. Like the fact that Hajime’s picked up the habit to take Oikawa’s hands in his and check for broken nails and dry, cracked skin.

It’s probably the nerves that made him relent so easily. Tomorrow is the second to last day of Spring High preliminaries, their last chance to beat Shiratorizawa and go to Nationals with _Aoba Johsai_ emblazoned on their backs.

Hajime is confident in their team, in the efforts they all have put into these three years, but he’d be lying if he says there’s not a prickle of unease clawing at his chest. And even without having to ask he knows that the prospect of facing not one, but _two_ prodigies has Oikawa on the tips of his toes, too, more restless than usual.

Hajime should stop indulging him so much but goddammit if the gleam in Oikawa’s eyes as Hajime spikes his perfect tosses one after another doesn’t have him wanting for more.

(It’s different from that dangerous glint Oikawa gets when he’s practicing his serves by himself, when there’s no Hajime by his side to keep him in check, to keep his immense strength from overwhelming his body. While that has Hajime bristling, has him curling in his fists until the knuckles turn white— _this_ is a song in his veins, the spark that sets his senses alight. A buzz of daring adrenaline, the thrum of the universe as it rises up to Oikawa’s challenging and defying its laws of talents and geniuses.)

Oikawa is humming, now. He’s sitting on the bench in the locker room, legs on either side, leaning back on his free hand, his eyes to the ceiling. Hajime sits facing him, one those setter hands in his own as he clips and files the nails for tomorrow’s matches.

Perhaps it’s the lingering endorphin rush sharpening his senses, but Hajime is especially aware of the feel of Oikawa’s hand right now. The coarse spots on his palm and the contrasting smoothness on the other side. The gliding bumps and valleys of his knuckles. How warm it is even on Hajime’s still heated, sweat-caked skin.

If Hajime catches himself taking a bit too long with each touch, each brush of skin, he’s blaming it on the distracting ugly tune Oikawa’s humming.

(He recognizes it, of course; it’s the soundtrack of that new sci-fi show that’s become Oikawa recent obsession. Hajime knows this only because he’s been dragged along for a weekend marathon or two. Maybe he should be worrying about how much softer he’s gotten, how it takes less push to get him to comply to Oikawa’s scheme. But the more pressing matter is that he doesn’t know if he does so just to stop Oikawa’s persistent nagging or to catch a glimpse of Oikawa’s face when he falls asleep on the couch, weary wrinkles eased out, finally and truly at peace.)

The foot that’s poking his own works just as well as another excuse. Oikawa jabs his toes into Hajime’s shin again, and again. Hajime feels an eye twitch at the relentless assault.

“Okay,” Hajime starts after his attempt at fighting back almost degraded them into playing aggressive footsie. “Stop moving around so much or I’ll slip and cut off your fingers.”

Oikawa laughs, says, “You wouldn’t do that, Iwa-chan! My beautiful hands are very important to the team.”

 _It’s more than that_ , Hajime thinks. They’re more than that, more than just for orchestrating a flawless team play. Oikawa’s hands are the warmest part of him that Hajime has ever known, has ever touched and felt.

Once, during an away training camp at the mountainside they’d held a bonfire in the late chilling night. The fire was large enough for teams from three schools to circle it in one-and-a-half line. Hajime, fresh out of the showers, had been shivering in the cold gusts of wind; there might’ve been frost forming over his still damp skin. Even with a fire that size they’d had to huddle in close. Hajime remembers the sudden warmth that enveloped him when he’d been at just the right distance from the fire, the tickle of heat at his outstretched hands. He pulled back, for a moment, when a strand of orange-red had lashed out unexpectedly, sparks rising. But the cold, and a thrill hauling his heart to a race, had forced him to step closer anyway.

Oikawa’s warmth is just like that. There’s a tipping point between engulfing comfort and outright threats of burns that keeps Hajime from getting too close, from staying nearby too long. It’s when their fingers unintentionally skim over each other’s; when Oikawa rests his head on Hajime’s shoulder, chocolate-brown downy hair tickling his cheek and neck, goosebumps breaking over the flush that heats up Hajime’s entire being. And Hajime is so, so tempted to jump over that juncture, just like that day with the fire in the middle of an icy autumn night.

(Oikawa had leaned on him, then, as the bright moon reached its peak and began to drift down the west sky. Exhaustion had his eyes half-lidded, his breath coming slow and deep. Hajime had leaned back into him, every point of contact felt impossibly summery.)

How can he not when, over the years, he’s affixed himself to this warmth?

(Whenever and wherever Oikawa is Hajime is also there. There’s no escaping the collateral effect.)

He doesn’t notice he’s stopped, that he’s stilled, still grasping Oikawa’s hand in both of his. Oikawa’s hum is absent. The silence is condensed by their proximity, swirled into a heavy cloud by the stifling atmosphere in the room. It brings Hajime back as he tries to breathe in the leaden air, its weight settling in Hajime’s lungs like cold iron.

“Wash your hands and dry them,” Hajime forces out, the words grating at his tongue. “So I can get to filing them.”

He’d been rubbing his thumbs in circles across Oikawa’s hands and the buzz of friction leaves them tingling. Tiny shivers that are starting to climb up his arms, wrapping around his heart and causing it to flutter, and then taper down as they travel to conquer every edge of his being.

Oikawa gets up airily, strides toward the doorway to the showers with the usual cheeky and confident spring in his steps. It’s only when the door clicks closed, when there’s a loud sound of rushing water beyond, that Hajime releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. In the sparse noises he can hear his heart beat so clearly; it’s not a fast, rapid rhythm, but a hefty drumming. Each pound is rattling, hurts just a bit. Pinches his airway a little tighter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last edited: 11/14/2016 - Thanks to [Frenchibi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchibi) for the corrections!

It’s quiet and chaos all at once after Spring High. Every spare time they’d had was spent with volleyball in mind, and so they were left with monstrous piles of study materials to speed through for midyear finals.

There’s less time to play around, fewer opportunities for banter. Their fingertips are stained with inky smudges, their skin crisscrossed with stray highlighter marks, because of course that’s what happens when they get together to study with Makki and Mattsun. In a way, the chaotic predictability of it is a solace. Takes their mind off the university pamphlets their parents left lying around in convenient places.

By the end of the last exam they’re all more relieved than exhausted. They need a break and, really, what’s more relaxing than a volleyball match to unwind all that tension?

Hajime and Oikawa aren’t the only ones with that idea. When their feet carry them to the gym, heads somewhat still whirling with formulas and obscure dates, half of the team members are already there, and the rest arrives soon enough.

In reminiscence of the days when they were still in the club, the games end late. The sun has already fallen asleep and dragged a blanket of gray-blue speckled with dim stars in its place when they part ways, all bright grins and little trace of the previous fatigue.

Snow is starting to drift down lazily as Hajime finds himself sitting beside Oikawa at the bus stop near the school. They could walk home like everybody else did; the wintered world and its drowsy cold make hanging out in the familiarity of their rooms enticing. But there’s nothing wrong with stalling, now, just being outside and enjoying the tickle of snowflakes on skin.

“Yahaba is a good captain,” Hajime says between the rumble of passing cars. “His float serves floored us and he’s working well with the spikers.”

Oikawa hums in assent. “Well, it was me who taught and prepped him, after all,” he says, a drizzle of sincerity betraying his haughty lilt. He leans back on the bench, lifting his gaze up to the cloudy sky. “And Kyoutani—he’s actually communicating with Kindaichi. Still mostly through glares and grunts, but he didn’t steal one ball the entire time.”

“Kunimi, too,” Hajime adds. “I don’t know what you said to him but there’s more life in his eyes, even though it looks like it’s fueled by annoyance and exasperation.”

“And Watari is improving; he got a few of my serves and some of Yahaba’s.”

Hajime sighs into his cupped hands, feeling the chill start to rasp at his throat. “Yeah,” he breathes out.

“Mattsun and Makki are doing well.”

They are, Hajime thinks. He’s known them long enough to notice that those claps on the shoulders, those high-fives and headbutts, were a bit drawn-out today, lingering a stretch longer than usual. And if Hajime is shrewd enough to connect the dots then Oikawa would’ve never missed it.

There’s something off about the way he said it, though. It’s a casual remark on the surface, but edged with that pitch Oikawa uses when he’s complaining about something he wants but cannot attain. A minuscule detail, but Hajime catches it anyway.

(He’s been at the end of that tone too many times not to develop some kind of alarm system for it. When they were kids and Oikawa came up with childish yet complex escapades bordering on manic, dooming them both to scraped limbs and be grounded by their parents.

When Oikawa spots an enemy, a genius infiltrating his court, and gaily elaborates on how he plans to crush them, to bring them and their team down to their knees. In the past, sometimes it was inflicted with anger and frustration as he glared daggers at his own knee, his hands digging merciless half-moons on his legs. Hajime had slapped those hands away.)

A wave of cars skids by, their lights glowing a white-gold that highlights the dark blue hue of the night and glistens on the carpet of snow, and trails of red from their rear-end lights follow. Just as white and vivid as their breaths, puffs of fleeting clouds. The reds on their flushed cheeks and noses.

Hajime turns his head to look at Oikawa. His pale complexion has only accentuated the effects; he’s sporting a much ruddier flush on his face. It’s so deep and vibrant that Haijme has the urge to cup Oikawa’s face, feel those colors bloom under his icy palms. (It’d be so warm. It’d be like nestling under the blankets in breezy winter mornings, like lounging on the couch and leaning into each other for warmth, for comfort.) Hajime shoves his hand into the pockets of his hoodie lest they do exactly that.

He hadn’t been too aware of it before but the few extra centimeters between them now seems like a blatant anomaly. It’s the indeterminable remain of that moment in the locker room, the ramification of Hajime’s logical thoughts shortening out because he’d sunk too deep in the ocean that’s Oikawa’s warmth.

Amid the flurry of textbooks and worksheets and exams it hadn’t mattered much. But now this distance feels more hazardous than when there had been none. It burns, this small breadth of space; trying to cross it would be a sharp and crude pain, like dragging the sensitive skin of his palms across sun-baked asphalt, splinters and lacerations in its wake.

A large drop of snow settles on the bridge of Oikawa’s nose. It must’ve tickled because he wrinkles it soon after and swipes the offending flake away. Hajime’s glad he did; any second late and it might’ve been Hajime’s thumb brushing over that rosy-tipped curve.

Oikawa catches him staring, then. But Hajime doesn’t get the chance to cover it up with some witty remark before Oikawa’s face lights up with a grin. Not teasing, no; it’s the mischievous one that promises those scraped knees and elbows and all sorts of troubles thereafter. “I changed my mind,” he suddenly says, which doesn’t help Hajime’s confusion at all.

The grip on his wrist is just as unexpected. Its heat washes away the cold so fast that a shudder shoots up and down Hajime’s spine, alerting all his senses. He stumbles a bit as Oikawa tugs him up and begins running with him in tow.

He’s so busy trying to regain his balance, to make sense of the heat wrapped around his wrist, that he doesn’t pay attention to their surroundings. Everything narrows down to swirls of snowflakes, the wind that’s clashing against his body, and the shrill honks of cars as they sprint through the traffic. The clomps of sneakers on pavements dull as they reach an area where the snow has been left to pile up, thick but still soft enough to yield under their steps.

It’s darker here, Hajime realizes as much as Oikawa starts to slow down to a jog, Hajime trailing along dazedly. His airway feels pricked from the cold heavy breaths he’s taking in and his throat is parched. But Oikawa’s hand has slipped down to clutch his, grasping it tight, and there’s nothing that could surmount that.

Just as he thinks he’s managed to steady himself the world spins again. A cushion of snow breaks his fall as he lands of his back, limbs akimbo. Air rushes out of his lungs and it takes him a few seconds to get it back. He blinks rapidly and there’s Oikawa, leaning over him, his grin so wide it slices his faces in halves and crinkles his eyes. And in his hands—

“Fuck!” Hajime yells as Oikawa dumps the mountain of snow on his chest. He kicks the other boy off of him and rolls over, shivering and trying his best to get rid of the snow. His clothes are damp already and some slush has sneaked its way through them and straight onto the unprepared skin underneath. Behind him, Oikawa’s boisterous laugh rings clear and melodious.

The bastard has the nerve to _still_ guffaw even as Hajime tackles him. No one should be able to fall so gracefully, but Oikawa did and it irritates Hajime to no end. Oikawa’s the one on his back, now. His arms are on either side of his head, Adam’s apple bobbing with laughter. Not for long, though, because Hajime’s gathered some snow of his own and is now shoving it down Oikawa’s shirt. Oikawa screeches, and it’s Hajime turn to smirk.

Oikawa tries to buck away and while he’s taller Hajime’s got the weight advantage. He clamps his legs on either side of Oikawa’s hips, pushes Oikawa’s shoulders down to the ground, feeling the tension melt away as a new thrill flutters in his stomach. Oikawa claws halfheartedly at him, hiccuping with leftover peals of giggles.

“God, your face—” he chokes out, and then his eyes shut as another bout of amusement takes over. Hajime’s heart is about to burst out of his chest just to join in the revelry.

Oikawa wipes at the leaked tears with his sleeve before looking back up at Hajime. He grins, slow and lazy and cheeky, but the wicked glint in it is fizzling out. He stops heaving for air, starts breathing normally, steadily; Hajime can feel each breath he takes, each rise and fall of his chest.

It’s disorienting how fast and acute the atmosphere shifts. Somewhere along the way Hajime’s hands has drifted down to rest on the sides of Oikawa’s chest. He rubs at the soaked fabric of the jacket absently, knowing what’s hidden underneath and wishing he could see it right now.

Neither of them move, both still and silent. It’s as if the Earth’s gravity has realigned and is now centered on Oikawa. Hajime is anchored down, his chest heavy with something he doesn’t know if he wants to unwrap, but he feels no inclination to pull away.

(He’s pulled away too many times, walked away far too long.)

Oikawa’s eyes are half-closed, his gaze unreadable, but he shows no sign of withdrawing. There’s no sun-baked asphalt between them and Hajime realizes he’s jumped over the tipping point as soon as he’d let Oikawa grasp his hand and hauled him here. He’s already engulfed in so much warmth, has been beside Oikawa’s fire all this time that the fear of burns becomes obsolete.

Oikawa has always been a force to be reckoned with and this time he’s gravity itself, pulling Hajime down until there’s no space left between them, until their foreheads touch and their lips meet.

It’s messy. God, it’s messy. Hajime might’ve landed a little to the side at first, and their noses bump and their teeth clash, a dull pain that’s quickly forgotten as the kiss gets sloppier and fervent. Then there’s a heat cupping Hajime’s cheek and another one on the back of his head; Oikawa’s warm, warm hands nudge him gently, guiding him so that their lips fit perfectly at last.

 _Oh_. Oikawa probably has at lot of practice with his strings of dates and that thought burns, sparks the fuel that’s spilled over Hajime’s heart. He follows Oikawa’s guidance but not for long, slides his own hands up to hold those flushed cheeks, and Oikawa’s gasp as Hajime deepens the kiss is the last kindling he needs so that the warmth can wholly and so completely enfold him.

He feels their lips tingle as Oikawa hums, pleased. When they part it’s slow, reluctant, and when Hajime tries to retreat further Oikawa keeps him in place with the hand tangled in his hair. Keeps only a hairbreadth between them, draws him in so that Hajime’s forehead rests against his.

“You idiot,” Hajime says, panting slightly. “Was this your plan all along?”

Oikawa chuckles, and Hajime thumps their heads together in lieu of a retort. “Not really,” Oikawa confesses a moment later. He brings his hands up to Hajime’s temples, kneads them with his thumbs. “Just wanted to ease those wrinkles out. I can’t be seen hanging around such a grumpy old man.”

“And your solution”—Hajime glances around briefly—“is wrestling in the snow in the middle of a deserted park?”

“You’ve always been physical and violent.”

 _Thud_. Another headbutt, and when Oikawa only snickers again Hajime follows it up with another kiss, just to see if it’ll silence him. It’s very effective, Hajime notes as Oikawa sighs against him.

They’re cold, soaked to the bones, and Hajime’s sure this is going to bite them in the ass with a bad case of flu. But that’s just how it is, being with Oikawa, and while through all the years they’ve known each other there are stunts and shenanigans he’d come to regret this sure as hell isn’t one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Update: After a lot of thoughts, I decided to end this here; the 'fire' theme snowballed into something that, even though it has fluff itself, is a bit too angsty and/or smutty to fit into this timeline and atmosphere. I'll certainly be playing with the idea further, though, and post it as a whole new fic ^^ 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Your comments have really helped me to be braver with writing fics! (And I even managed to write that BokuAka I mentioned ^^) Kudos, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated~!
> 
> [tumblr.](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/)


End file.
